


When Angels Wear Flannel

by expectingtofly



Series: SPN Stay At Home Challenge [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: #SpnStayAtHome | SPN Stay at Home Challenge, A little angst, A little pining, Case Fic, Castiel Wears Dean Winchester's Clothes, Coda, Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Post-Purgatory (Supernatural), Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, okay he tries to be a hunter, sometime around season 8 episode 7 and 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectingtofly/pseuds/expectingtofly
Summary: After mysteriously returning from Purgatory, Castiel decides to take a break from being an angel and become a hunter. Dean is less excited about the idea, especially since he doesn't quite know where he and Castiel stand in their relationship. But he and Castiel take a case and shenanigans ensue...including Castiel in Dean's clothes, vampires, snakes, and dramatic widows.Takes place sometime after Season 8 Episode 7 because Castiel didn't get to try being a hunter for long enough :)Sorta inspired by the Sherlock Holmes' mystery "The Adventure of the Speckled Band " by Sir Arthur Conan DoyleWritten for the Week 9 Undercover prompt of the SPN Stay at Home Challenge.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: SPN Stay At Home Challenge [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749871
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	When Angels Wear Flannel

“I can’t believe you fell into that gross swamp,” Dean said, opening the door to their motel room. “Way to go, making us look professional.”

“It was a river and it was slippery,” Castiel said, walking inside in squeaking shoes. His clothes were drenched in mud, leaves, and maybe even blood, judging by one questionable stain.

Dean took a step back to avoid getting any of the crap on himself. “You almost fell on the body.”

“I was trying to see the bite marks on his arm!” Peeling off his trench coat, he held it away from his body and brown water dripped onto the floor.

Dean grimaced. Definitely a biohazard. “First step to being a hunter, don’t mess up the crime scene. And take that off in the bathroom, you’re getting gross river water everywhere.” Castiel held his trench coat to his chest to stop it from dripping and went inside the bathroom. “Hurry up because we need to go talk to the wife of that dead river guy.”

“I don’t have any clean clothes,” Castiel’s voice came from the bathroom.

Dean looked through the police report he had gotten from one of the officers at the river. “Do your finger snapping clothes cleaning thing.”

He could almost hear Castiel’s eyes roll. “I told you, Dean, I’m trying to not use my powers. I’m a hunter now.”

Dean rolled his own eyes. “You should’ve thought of that before you fell in the river.” 

He heard Castiel huff. He’d gone along with Castiel’s plan to become a hunter because he’d thought it wouldn’t last a day. It’d been a week now and Castiel was still asking to come on cases. Dean had to admit, though, he didn’t mind too much. Sure, Castiel wasn’t much help, but Dean liked having him close. After Purgatory, he was scared to ever let Castiel out of his sight again.

“Fine,” he said. “You can borrow my clothes. I didn’t bring an extra suit, though, so we’re going to have to go casual.” He rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out an extra pair of jeans. His fingers hovered over his shirts and he settled on a milky blue flannel, pretending it was the first one he saw, not the one that best matched Castiel’s eyes. 

Going to the bathroom, he found Castiel washing dirt off his arms in the sink. 

“Vampire, right?” Castiel asked. “Because of the blood loss?” 

“Right.” He handed Castiel his clothes and Castiel wrinkled his nose. “What’s that face for? These are fine.”

“It’s just…” Castiel held up the flannel shirt.

“You’ll look like a lumberjack, I know. Get dressed.”

* * *

They drove to the neighborhood of the wife whose husband Castiel had so clumsily joined in the river. The man had been declared missing a week ago and had only been found that morning, nearly drained of blood with two small puncture marks on his wrist. The police didn’t know what to think, which usually meant a supernatural-related death, so Dean and Castiel had taken the case.

“Alright, we’re reporters, writing a story about the death of this woman’s husband.” Dean parked in front of the widow’s house—or better, mansion. He looked up at the large, three story pristine white house and its wrap-around porch and manicured lawns. 

Castiel held open the police report on his lap and fiddled with the sleeve of his—Dean’s—shirt. “Helen Roylott. 42 years old. Herpetologist.”

“She studies herpes?”

“Reptiles,” Castiel said, buttoning and unbuttoning the cuff of the sleeve.

“Roll the sleeves up.” Dean leaned over. “Like this.” Taking Castiel’s arm, he rolled up the sleeves for him, trying to ignore their physical proximity.

“This is a very comfortable shirt,” Castiel remarked, watching him.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfy.” Finishing rolling up the sleeves, Dean pulled away. “I’m going to need it back.” 

Castiel looked at himself in the rearview mirror and smiled. “Maybe I should wear clothes like this more often.”

“Uh, no. We’re not going to wear matching clothes.”

“But it makes me look more like a hunter. I could pass as a Winchester now.”

“You’re forgetting that you still look dorky.” 

Castiel narrowed and Dean tried not to grin. “Okay, be polite, act sad, try not to trip over your own two feet.”

He didn’t bother looking at Castiel, knowing the bitch-face he’d see. Getting out of the car, he started towards the house, checking to make sure the business card he’d grabbed was the correct one. Castiel followed at his heels. He did look strange wearing Dean’s clothes, though in a sort of dorky, adorable sort of way, Dean had to admit. 

_Adorable? Gross,_ Dean thought, shaking his head. 

He rang the doorbell and in a few seconds a woman in a long, silky black robe opened the door. She looked at them over a lacy black handkerchief which she held to her teary eyes. “I suppose you’ve heard the news,” she said without introduction. She leaned on the doorframe and slumped her shoulders. “It’s simply tragic.”

“Um, yes,” Dean started. The woman, who he was assuming was Helen, dabbed an eye and looked over Dean’s shoulder at Castiel. “We’re from the Gazette,” Dean said. “We wanted to ask a few questions about your husband’s death.”

“Ah, the greedy press.” Helen sighed. “Oh well, you must do your job.” Stepping back, she motioned to them. “Come in, come in.”

“Nice bathrobe,” Dean commented as he walked past her into the house.

She brightened. “Oh thank you. It’s real mink fur.” Dean tried to keep the smile on his face. 

They stood in a wide foyer with a curved, marble staircase. Helen shut the door behind Castiel and touched his arm. “And what’s your name, darling?” she asked, her voice echoing in the wide space.

“Um,” Castiel looked at Dean for help. “I’m Arthur, this is Conan.” Dean rolled his eyes. They really had to work on Castiel’s aliases.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Helen pointed to a room off the foyer. “You two have a seat in there. I’ll tell my maid to bring some tea.” 

Dean and Castiel obediently went into the sitting room off the foyer. A purple sofa lined one wall and faced two matching purple armchairs. A fireplace took up another wall, framed by tall bookshelves lined with not only books but what looked like artifacts and antiques.

Hearing Helen’s footsteps fade, Dean turned on Castiel. “Arthur? Conan? What the hell?”

Castiel sat on the sofa. “I was improvising. I think I did quite well.”

Dean shook his head. “We need to work on your aliases.” Walking up to the fireplace, he looked at a large painting hanging over the mantle. It was a portrait of, he assumed, a younger Helen. She wore a looping ring on her finger which, he noticed as he peered closer, was a silver snake. 

“Creepy,” he muttered.

Sharp taps rang through the foyer—Helen must be wearing high heels under her robe, Dean realized—and he sat next to Castiel on the sofa.

Helen came into the room still dabbing her eyes. She settled herself onto one of the armchairs and sighed. “I’m so sorry you never met my late husband George. He was such a kind soul.” She gestured to her portrait over the fireplace. “He commissioned this for me, such a dear.”

“Yeah, um, very nice,” Dean said. “So, Mrs. Roylott—”

“Call me Widow Roylott,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s what I am now.”

“Alright,” Dean said, shooting Castiel a _you-see-this-crazy-bullshit-too-right?_ look. “Your husband went missing May 12th, correct?”

“Oh, let me see. Yes, it was the night of May 12th. We retired to bed and when I woke up that morning, he was gone. I assumed he was at work. It was only that night when he did not return that I began to panic.”

“Is there anywhere he might have gone after work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he went to the golf club with his friends, though no one ever mentioned anything to me. Thank you dear.” A maid had walked into the room and set a tray with tea cups and small pastries onto the table in between the seating. 

Widow Roylott took the tea cup the maid poured for her. “You two are the first reporters to show up here,” she said. “I was expecting more pesky intrusions—though, I must say, I wouldn’t mind if all reporters were so handsome.” She smiles over her tea cup at Castiel and winked. 

“Thank you,” Castiel said with a nervous glance at Dean. “I wouldn’t mind my job so much if all the widows were so beautiful.”

_Flirting?_ Dean thought. The Cas he knew would’ve frozen up at a compliment, or taken it too literally and made everything even more awkward.

“Oh, you’re too sweet.” Leaning forward, Widow Roylott touched Castiel’s arm. Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed one of the small cookies on the tray. “Such a nice jacket,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

Having had enough of this bullshit, Dean spoke up, “He’s taken.” It wasn’t true, but hopefully it would shut this absurd widow up. Then again, maybe he was the absurd one for getting jealous. 

Castiel looked confused. “Um, right,” he said. “I have a boyfriend. His name is Dean.” Dean nearly choked on the cookie he was eating.

“Oh, the good ones are always taken,” Widow Roylott sighed. “Well, give me a call if Dean ever dies of mysterious circumstances.” She leaned forward to grab a cookie off the tray and glanced up at them. “I’m only joking!” she laughed. 

Dean cleared his throat and stood, “Can I use your restroom?” He’d be damned before he drank out of a teacup and this conversation made death by vampire look merciful.

Widow Roylott waved her hand. “Yes, Charlotte, please show him the way.” Dean followed the maid, Charlotte, and looked back at Castiel. _Ask questions,_ he mouthed.

As he left the room, he heard Castiel ask Widow Roylott, “So you study reptiles?” Dean rolled his eyes. _About the case, idiot._

“Second door on the left,” Charlotte said, pointing down a long hallway.

“Thanks.” He headed in that direction and waited until Charlotte had disappeared around the corner, then backtracked and went up to the second floor where he started trying different doors, trying to find the master bedroom. 

He wasn’t going to lie, hearing Castiel say he had a boyfriend named Dean wasn’t horrible. Only problem: he and Castiel weren’t dating. Not even close.

Yes, Castiel was back from Purgatory, yes, they were on a case together, and, yes, Dean was damn glad to have him back, but, at the same time, he and Castiel were most definitely not together.

Which made sense, because why would they be? This was the first time since Purgatory that he and Castiel were together alone for an extended period of time, and they’d fallen right back into the easy, teasing, ignore-any-feelings friendship they’d had before. 

Not that Dean wanted anything more than that. Whatever had happened in Purgatory—whatever intense desperation had filled him to find Castiel at all costs and bring him home—that was all a result of the strange environment. Once he’d returned to the Earth, and once Castiel returned, he’d expected everything to return to normal.   
  
Unfortunately, everything felt different now. After searching for Castiel for so long, finally finding him, then losing him, then being reunited again, returning to their old banter seemed shallow. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Purgatory, where he had actually thought that, for once, he and Castiel were on the same page. But then Castiel had chosen literal monster hell over returning with him—and if that didn’t say something about Castiel’s feelings, or lack of feelings towards him, what did? 

Shaking his head, Dean tried two tall french doors. They opened to reveal a large room with a wide poster bed. The closets and dresser drawers were open, revealing their contents. It seemed Widow Roylott was in the middle of packing. But what was strangest of all was a large, empty glass tank in the corner of the room. Dean walked up to it and peered inside. It smelled like disinfecting solution. 

He poked around in some of the drawers. All women’s clothes. Then he noticed several cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, _For Donation_ written on their sides. Opening one of the boxes revealed men’s clothing, presumably the murder victim. So Widow Roylott moved on quickly. 

As he crouched down to look in another box, something under the bed caught his eye. Reaching under the bed, his fingers touched something dry which nearly crumbled at his touch. Delicately, he pulled it out, then yanked his hand away and stared down at what he’d found. A long snake skin.

“Well, look at the time,” Dean said, walking into the sitting room. “Looks like we better get going, right Cas—Arthur?”

Castiel and Widow Roylott looked up at him. He was momentarily surprised to see Castiel in his own clothes, forgetting for a moment that Castiel wouldn’t be wearing his trench coat. He and Widow Roylott were bent over a box of what, Dean couldn’t tell, resting on the glass table between them.

“Oh, um, yes.” Castiel stood. “Nice to meet you, Helen.” 

_So they’re on first name basis now,_ Dean thought. He put his hand on Castiel’s back and half-pushed him out of the room. “We can come back another time to complete our interview,” he told Widow Roylott. “Or maybe just send an email, talk on the phone.”

“An email will have to do,” she said as she followed them into the foyer. “I’m moving this weekend. I’m afraid this house holds too many memories.” She produced her handkerchief again from the folds of her bathrobe to dab at her eyes.

“Are you bringing any snakes with you?” Dean asked. “I’m assuming you have some, being a…” he forgot the word and improvised, “Reptilian.” 

“Herpetologist,’” Castiel said quickly.

Widow Roylott’s eye twitched. “Oh, no, I don’t keep snakes here. I like to keep my work and home life separate.” She opened the door and put on what seemed to be a forced smile. “Well, adieu, my darlings. And thank you for your visit and sympathies.” She patted Castiel on the shoulder and shut the door behind them.

“Creepy, creepy, creepy,” Dean said, shuddering as they walked down the pathway back to the Impala.

“She had an impressive collection of rattlesnake rattlers,” Castiel said. 

“That’s what you were looking at? Gross. Ew.” Dean pulled out his keys and unlocked the car. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to mention it, but he couldn’t help say, “Looks like you two got along well together.”

Castiel frowned. “I was only trying to work the case. Isn’t that what you do? Flirt with the women to earn their trust?”

“What? No! It sounds so creepy when you say it like that.”

Castiel shrugged. “Did you find anything in her house?”

“Yeah, a snake skin.” Dean got in the car. “Under her bed. It was massive. And a big tank. I don’t care what she says, she’s keeping a snake there. Or multiple.” He shuddered again.

“Why would she lie about that?” Castiel asked, shutting his door. 

“Because having a big snake tank in your bedroom is freaking weird. Did you learn anything from her?”

“I learned the latin names for different kinds of rattlesnakes.”

“Very helpful,” Dean muttered. He glanced at Castiel, wondering what the whole “boyfriend named Dean thing” was about. He cleared his throat. “So, uh, you were sure improvising a lot back there. That whole boyfriend thing?”

“You’re the one who said I was taken. I had to make up a lie and having a boyfriend was the first thing that came to mind.”

“A boyfriend named Dean.”

“It was the first name that came to my head.” He cocked his head, looking at Dean. “That is the number one skill of being a hunter, right? Lying? I think I’m becoming a very good hunter.”

Dean shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. “You’re getting there.” So Cas had just been lying. That made sense. He didn’t know why he felt disappointed.

“Alright,” he said, trying to ignore those thoughts, pulling out into the street. “Time to go to that golf club Helen mentioned, I guess. Maybe our vampire is a golfer. Long as he doesn’t collect snakes.”

* * *

“Well that was a bust.” Dean took a drink from his beer. No one at the golf club had seen Mr. Roylott on May 12th or since. Dean had even asked the owner of the bar in which he and Castiel now sat, but the man had never seen Mr. Roylott, which wasn’t a surprise. Dean couldn’t see mink bathrobe Helen coming to a dive bar.

“Maybe the vampire was only passing through when he killed Mr. Roylott,” Castiel suggested.

“Sam did say there haven’t been any signs of a vamp nest around here.” Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know where to go next from here.”

Castiel ran his finger down the condensation on the neck of his beer bottle. “Does this happen often? That you and Sam can’t solve cases?”

“Not _often_. But, yeah, sure. Sometimes you just have to call it quits.”

Castiel wiped his hands on his—Dean's—jeans. “Why did you buy these clothes?” The way he changed subjects so quickly gave Dean whiplash. It was like his mind ran a million miles an hour and Dean had to run to keep up.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I liked the color of the shirt, I guess. Jeans were on sale.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “I wear the trench coat and suit because they were the last thing Jimmy Novak ever put on.”

“We can go shopping for clothes for you, if you want,” Dean said. 

“I don’t know.” Castiel looked down at Dean’s shirt. “Maybe I _should_ get new clothes.”

“I like the trench coat.” Castiel looked up at him and Dean tried to amend, “I mean, it’s kinda your look, right?”

“I think I need to try something different.” Castiel stared at his still full beer bottle.

“Alright, what’s with this whole hunter thing?” Dean asked.

“Being an angel...” Castiel seemed to search for words. “It’s overrated. Besides, I’ve been an angel for millenia. I want to try something new.”

“Hmm.” Guess he had a point. Finishing his own beer, Dean grabbed Castiel’s, and Castiel stood up from his chair. 

“Teach me how to play darts. That is something hunters do, right?”

“Well, this one does, at least.” Dean stood and grabbed the darts from the dartboard on the wall. He handed them to Castiel. “You go first. You get three tries at a time. Try to hit a section with the highest number, or the bullseye for the most points.”

Castiel squinted at the board, and Dean thought that if he scanned the room quickly, he might not even recognize Castiel in this outfit. He didn’t understand why Castiel felt the need to change his identity. Did this have something to do with him? Was this the angel equivalent of getting a new haircut after a breakup? Not that they had been dating in Purgatory, but he had felt closer to Castiel there than he ever felt before.

Castiel threw the dart at the board and it landed in the bullseye. “This isn’t very fun,” he remarked, turning to look at Dean.

“You’re too good at it,” Dean said. “Try not using your angel voodoo.”

“I wasn’t! I can't help it."

It wasn’t so much the clothes that were bothering Dean about Castiel. It was that something had happened between them in Purgatory. Some understanding, some connection. But now Dean didn’t know what was going on between them. The frustration of not knowing who Castiel was or what he wanted was only exacerbated when Castiel wasn’t even dressing like himself and was trying to act like someone new.

Castiel threw another dart and it landed right next to his first. “Son of a bitch!”

Dean had been in the process of grabbing his beer bottle; at Castiel's exclamation, he nearly dropped it, splashing beer onto his hand, and swore. Castiel turned to look at him, smiling. 

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asked.

Castiel tried to look innocent. “What?” 

“You don’t say that, I say that. Pick your own catchphrase.”

“Fine.” Castiel turned back to the dartboard. Dean shook his head. He needed the old Castiel back, now.

* * *

“Sam said he’ll be here tomorrow,” Dean said, looking down at his phone as he sat down on the motel bed. “Maybe he’ll be able to help with this case.”

“Okay.” Castiel sat down at a small table in the corner of the room.

Dean set his phone down and ran a hand over his face. “Well, I’m going to sleep.” Castiel nodded. “You gonna sit there all night?”

Castiel shrugged. “Okay, creeper,” Dean said, pulling back the covers on the bed. “No staring.” Laying down, he started to turn off the light, then glanced at Castiel. The angel was staring down at his hands, or maybe at Dean’s clothes which he was still wearing. “You can lie down here, if you want,” Dean said. Castiel looked up at him. “It’s got to be more comfortable than that chair.”

Castiel studied him, then nodded and came over. Dean slid over and Castiel untied his—Dean’s—boots and set them down on the ground. He laid down under the covers, still in Dean’s jacket and clothes.

Dean turned off the light and they lay there in the dark. It was more comforting lying next to Castiel than Dean wanted to admit. In Purgatory they’d slept close for safety—so they said, though he might have abused the excuse. Benny mercifully turned a blind eye to the fact that he was practically sleeping in Castiel’s arms. 

Castiel shifted, pressing his arm closer against Dean’s. Never mind, Dean took it back; lying here next to Castiel wasn’t so much a comfort as it was torture. He’d been itching for a chance to take Castiel into his arms ever since Castiel returned. But he hadn’t when Castiel first appeared—bloody, dirty, tired, but _alive_ —and he worried he’d lost his chance. Maybe Castiel had taken his stunned, stilted response as proof that whatever had happened in Purgatory was truly over. 

Because they had had something. Dean might have put on a brave face in Purgatory, might have continually promised Benny and Castiel that they would get out, that they would live, but deep down he’d been the most terrified he’d ever been. So terrified, he said things he’d never said before to Castiel because he feared, more than dying itself, dying without ever saying them.

“Listen, Cas,” Dean said, staring up at the ceiling. His words were loud in the stillness of the room. “I said some things in Purgatory.”

“You want to take them back.”

It hurt to know that’s what Castiel immediately assumed. Dean remembered a moment in Purgatory when several Leviathan attacked, nearly overpowering him, Castiel, and Benny. He remembered how Castiel grabbed his hand to pull him to his feet after they’d killed the last Leviathan. How, still shaking from their near deaths, Dean clutched Castiel’s hand, said, “I don’t want to ever lose you, I can’t lose you.” How he pulled Castiel into an embrace and felt a rush of relief as Castiel wrapped his arms around him, held him close.

“No,” Dean said. 

A click, then the hum of the air conditioning. Dean turned his head to look at Castiel. Castiel didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean, for staying back in Purgatory, but it was the only way. I’m sorry we were there in the first place—“

“Cas, I don’t care about that shit. Yeah, you messed up, but so have I, a thousand times. If anyone should be using that excuse, it should be me.”

Castiel shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, and then he was gone.

_Damn angel,_ Dean thought. Thought Castiel wanted to be a hunter, wasn’t going to use his wings. 

Rolling over, he stared at the neon red numbers on the alarm clock until they wavered in his vision when he looked elsewhere. So everything they’d gone through in Purgatory meant absolutely nothing. But he knew that already, didn’t he? Castiel had stayed behind. Castiel wasn’t fueled by the same consuming need to be together, always, which had urged Dean through Purgatory, had kept him searching, praying, hoping.

A memory rose. Stopping for the night in their search for the portal and sitting next to Castiel, exhausted. Leaning against Castiel’s shoulder and shutting his eyes for only a second, too afraid to put down his guard for any longer.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” Castiel had said quietly, and Dean had thought he known what he meant.

* * *

Dean woke to his phone ringing. Half-sitting up, he groped for his phone on the nightstand, found it, and answered it. “Hello?”

“Agent Russell?” the voice said. “Police commissioner Anderson here. You should come down to Mrs. Roylott’s house. You’re going to want to see this.”

As if this case couldn’t get any weirder. Dean hung up and looked around the room. Castiel was still gone. Worried, he checked his phone to see if Castiel had texted him, but of course he hadn’t. 

Dean thought briefly of praying to him, telling him to come back, but decided against it. Praying to Castiel had become a habit in Purgatory, one he wasn’t eager to pick back up again. Those prayers had been fueled by desperation, were probably what Castiel was referring to when he gave Dean a chance to take his words back.

_I need you, I can’t leave without you, I won’t leave without you, please come back, stay with me, please._

As he swung his legs off the bed, he heard the motel room door open. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Castiel walk inside and he turned away before the relief he felt showed on his face.

“Good morning,” Castiel said, shutting the door. He held up a brown bag. “I brought you breakfast.” He was still wearing Dean’s clothes, albeit without the boots. He seemed oblivious to that fact, as well as unconcerned that he had disappeared last night without warning.

Dean stood. “We need to go. Something happened at that widow’s house.”

“Oh.” Castiel set the paper bag on the table. Dean opened his duffle bag and pulled out something to wear. “My clothes are still dirty.”

“Then keep wearing mine.”

Castiel came over and grabbed one of Dean’s shirts out of his bag. “Can I wear this one?”

“What’s wrong with the one you have on?”

“I like this color more.” 

_I’ve created a monster,_ Dean thought. He’d be lucky if Castiel didn’t steal every piece of clothing he owned.

He headed to the bathroom to change and thought of asking where Castiel had been all night. Instead, he said, “I want that shirt back.” What he really meant, he supposed, was _I want the old Cas back_. The one who’d held him in Purgatory, the one from before Purgatory, who always came when he called. The one who—Dean hoped—despite the fights and betrayals, despite never saying the words aloud, wanted to be with him too.

* * *

Police cars and an ambulance crowded the street outside of Mrs. Roylott’s house. Dean and Castiel got out of the Impala and flashed their badges at the police officers trying to keep curious bystanders at bay. 

The police commissioner turned to look at them as they walked over. “Well, agents,” she said, “looks like your work here is done.”

“Why? What happened?” Dean noticed the large tank he’d seen in Mrs. Roylott’s bedroom now standing on the lawn. 

“Mrs. Roylott is dead. Snake bite. Same thing that killed her husband.”

“Snake?” Dean asked. 

“Last night, the coroner found traces of venom in Mr. Roylott’s body. We’ve arrested the maid for being an accomplice in the murder. Says Mrs. Roylott released the snake while Mr. Roylott was sleeping, then drained his body to get rid of the venom. The maid dumped his body in the river.”

Dean blinked. “Wow.”

“If the snake hadn’t gotten loose from the basement last night and killed Mrs. Roylott, she’d be halfway to Costa Rica right now banking on a life insurance check. Excuse me, will you?” The police commissioner turned to talk to another police officer and Dean looked at Castiel.

“Guess we should’ve seen that coming.”

“No vampires?” Castiel asked.

“Nope. Just a deranged lady.” He spotted people coming out the house transporting a large snake. Its tongue flicked the air and Dean shuddered. Everything about this case was wrong. Castiel was trying to act like a hunter in Dean’s clothes, the monster of the week turned out to be a creepy snake lady, and Dean wanted to be with Castiel, had even hinted as much, but Castiel, it seemed, didn’t want him too.

Turning from looking at the snake, Dean straightened his shoulders. “Alright, then, time to go, I guess. We’re no longer needed here.”

As they walked back to the Impala, Castiel complained, “When am I going to get to solve a case?”

“That’s your takeaway from this?” Dean asked. “That lady sicced her pet snake on her husband.”

“I should’ve been able to tell there was something off with her. I’m an angel, Dean. I should be good at hunting.” He opened the door to the passenger side of the Impala and got inside.

Dean got on the opposite side and pulled his door shut. “Give it a few years, you’ll learn.”

Castiel sighed. “Maybe I am a better angel than hunter.”

Dean didn’t respond to what seemed an obvious fact and Castiel huffed. He pulled off Dean’s jacket and threw it onto the back seat.

“You don’t want to be a hunter anyway,” Dean said. “It’s a shitty life.” He started the Impala and glanced at Castiel staring moodily out the windshield. “So...you gonna quit, go back to Heaven?” Castiel shrugged. “Sam and I don’t mind having you around.” _Please don’t leave._

“I’m sure the angels don’t want me,” Castiel said. “So I suppose I’ll stay with you and Sam.”

Good to know; Dean was Castiel’s last choice. Relieved all the same, he smiled at Castiel. “We like angel you just fine anyway,” he said.

* * *

Back in their room, Dean packed up their things as Castiel threw his dirty clothes in the wash. Dean met him in the motel’s laundry room and found Castiel pulling his trench coat out of the dryer. He shook his head as Castiel pulled it to his face, smiling.

“Ah, nice and warm,” Castiel said. He pulled his trench coat on over Dean’s clothes, which created an odd-mismatched look. Still, it was better than nothing; Castiel looked marginally more like himself. Dean found himself hoping that he and Castiel could start over. Forget the tortured, confessional year in Purgatory. Maybe Castiel would come around. Dean had, hadn’t he?

“You are planning on returning my clothes, right?” Dean asked.

“Mmhm,” Castiel agreed noncommittally, smoothing his sleeves. “Maybe instead of coming on cases, I can man the phones for you and Sam.”

“Right, you can be our secretary,” Dean said and Castiel nodded eagerly, not catching the sarcasm.

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved the rest of Castiel’s clean clothes into his duffel bag. “Come on, let’s get going.” As Castiel walked past him, he had the urge to pull Castiel close and feel the familiar texture of the trench coat, the warmth of Castiel’s body against his. He settled for putting his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Can I drive?” Castiel asked, looking up at him.

“Not a chance.” Maybe he hadn’t ever said enough, even in Purgatory. He knew there was plenty he wanted to say now, wanted to do, wanted to prove. “But if you really like the shirt, you can keep it.” It still wasn’t enough, but he’d find a way. He wasn’t going to lose Castiel again.

**Author's Note:**

> this story started out as just a silly case fic and then turned into some angst but that's just the way it goes with dean and cas...hope you enjoyed, leave a comment to let me know what you thought :)
> 
> you can find [my tumblr here](https://expectingtofly.tumblr.com/)


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